


i will feel so glad to go

by kingandqueeninthenorth



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fever, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 18:54:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingandqueeninthenorth/pseuds/kingandqueeninthenorth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She withers away before him and there’s nothing he can do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i will feel so glad to go

“Your Grace,” a voice behind him warns. “You shouldn’t.”

The new maester means well, but Robb hasn’t the patience for him. He can hardly remember his name. Maester Lysen, or something similar. He is still adjusting to Winterfell, and he’s still learning Robb and how to best serve him. Robb is far too dismissive of him and he knows it, but his every thought is of Sansa and he can think of nothing else.

 _Just a fever_ , he has told Robb a thousand times.

“Leave her to me. I promise you, she will receive the best care. There are many other things that require your attention.” The maester is far from subtle. “And the last thing the North needs is for their king to fall ill.”

“She’s my sister,” Robb says as he kneels beside Sansa’s bed. She sleeps soundly for once, but her brow is dappled with beads of sweat and her fists are balled tight in her furs. She is far from well. “She needs me.”

_I need her._

—-

He tries to stay busy. He wants to focus on anything other than the way her bones protrude beneath her skin. He goes through the motions of being a king, but every time he blinks he sees auburn hair that has lost its luster and the pale skin of her wrists, the blue veins alarmingly visible.

She withers away before him and there’s nothing he can do.

—-

“She’s asking for you, Your Grace.”

He pushes past the maid, stepping around her clumsily and walking straight into a table edge. He hisses a curse under his breath as he leaves the Great Hall, Grey Wind following at his heels. Robb can’t get to her fast enough.

He bursts into her solar without a moment’s hesitation, all his manners and proper behavior forgotten. He finds her alone, buried beneath furs. Her head turns to him slowly, but her eyes light up the second she sees him.

“Robb,” she says breathlessly with a slow, weak smile. Her auburn hair is matted to her temples with sweat, and her eyes are heavy lidded. “You’re here.”

Grey Wind slips into the room and leaps onto Sansa’s bed with more grace than any wolf of his size should have. He licks her face and she almost manages a laugh before the wolf curls up beside her. The direwolf looks twice as big as his sister, and it gives him a sinking feeling.

He drops to his knees at her bedside. “Of course I’m here.”

She starts to reach for him but her hand falls flat, and she lets out a long breath, as though all the wind has gone out of her. He clasps his hand around hers and presses a kiss to her knuckles. He keeps his face calm, giving no sign of how afraid he is for her.

His sister looks at him with the eyes of someone much older. “Am I dying?”

He shakes his head adamantly. Whether he believes it or wants to believe it, he couldn’t say. “No, Sansa. No.”

“Tell me the truth,” she whispers.

“I am.” _You aren’t dying. You can’t be. I didn’t rescue you from the Lannisters to watch you die of a fever._

“I dreamt…” Her lips quivers. “I dreamt they killed you.”

“Stop worrying about me. I’m here.” Her hand feels small and frail in his own, nothing but skin and bones.

She shakes her head, her eyes growing wet with tears. “It was horrid, Robb. They stabbed you through the heart and cut off your head…” She looks at the sleeping direwolf beside her. “And they slew Grey Wind. They took his head…and sewed it on you.”

His stomach roils at the thought. “It was a dream,” he soothes in a low voice, brushing the hair from her face. She is sticky with sweat and heat rolls off her in waves. The fever burns through her like a fire through a dry forest. “Nothing more than a fever dream.”

“I can’t lose you,” she says in a tremulous voice. “Stay with me.”

He brings her hand to his cheek and holds it there. “Always.”

—-

“You have to drink, Sansa.”

She is wasting away. She refuses food and water, saying it all makes her stomach churn. The maester tries to force feed her, but Robb won’t have it. What little she does eat comes right back up, and Robb can feel her slipping away.

“Please, Sansa. For me.” He lifts her chin, bringing a spoonful of soup to her lips.

_Stay with me._

“It’s no use,” she says softly. “I can’t keep it down.”

“You can,” he says with a deluded sort of certainty. “You will.”

She shakes her head slowly, looking at him with teary blue eyes.

Grey Wind paces the room anxiously. He whines and lowers his ears, watching Robb try to coax Sansa into fighting just a little while longer.

“I’m dying,” Sansa rasps.

“You aren’t. I won’t let you die. Drink.” His voice is hard, the voice of a king.

“Tell me…” She pauses to take a breath. “A story.”

He squeezes his eyes shut in frustration and fury and an all consuming feel of hopelessness. “Drink, and I will.”

“Water,” she concedes. “Just a little. A taste.”

He fumbles with the skin of water in his hand. He dabs water on to his fingertip and then skims it along her dry, chapped lips. He can feel the feverish heat of her breath as it brushes against his skin. She licks her lower lip and nods for more.

He puts the skin to her lips and she drinks thirstily. He smiles in spite of himself, in spite of knowing that she will likely empty her stomach again in a few moments.

She breaks away breathing heavily and pushes the skin away. “I want a story.”

I _f I can keep her calm, keep her focused on me, maybe she’ll keep the water down._ “I could tell you how I defeated the Kingslayer.”

She smiles, so he tells it as best he can in hopes of seeing that smile again.

And she keeps the water down.

—-

He goes to kiss her forehead and she turns away.

“You’ll get sick,” she explains, keeping her head turned.

He hovers an inch away from her face, his eyes following the line of her profile. “It doesn’t matter.”

He sees her eyes flicker down, her eyelashes fluttering. “It does.”

_If you’re dying, take me with you._

He kisses her anyway, pressing his lips to the heated skin of her cheek. His bottom lip brushes the corner of her mouth, and she blames it on her for turning away.

—-

He’s almost certain her fever has broken, but the lull in temperature doesn’t last. He bathes her with cool towels and wraps wet rags about her neck and wrists and ankles.

She sleeps far too often, but he refuses to give up on her. Sometimes she wakes without the slightest idea where she is, and sometimes, she seems not to recognize him. She asks for father and mother, and Arya and Bran and baby Rickon.

“Have they forgotten me?” she whispers through her tears.

The fever seems to temporarily steal her memory, along with everything else.

She opens her eyes briefly one night, long enough to focus her bleary eyes on him. “You’re still here.”

He clutches her hands and kisses her wrists. “Stay with me, Sansa. I’ll tell you another story.”

She doesn’t seem to hear him at all. “You’re a good brother,” she breathes.

—-

Sansa has always been blessed. She was born beautiful and shining and lovely. She was born into a family who adored her, surrounded by good people in a good place where nothing went wrong.

She had everything.

 _It only makes sense for the gods to want to take it all away_ , he thinks.

—-

Her solar is dark and terrible and it reeks of sickness and impending death. He hates it. He throws open the windows and pulls the curtains back to let the fresh air and light in. If she dies, she’ll die in the sunlight, and that’s where she’s supposed to be.

He’s certain he’s going to lose her. He can feel her slipping through his fingers with her every gasping breath. He grips her hands tightly as they rest on her stomach, clinging to her as though it makes a difference.

Her eyes move to him slowly. “I want you to know,” she begins softly. “How much I love you.”

He shakes his head. “I won’t say goodbye.”

“Not goodbye,” she assures weakly. “Just…until later.”

He doesn’t know how much longer he can avoid it. The fighting is left to Sansa now, and he knows putting off parting words any longer may mean she won’t hear any sort of goodbye from him at all.

He can feel his throat tightening. “Don’t be scared.”

“I’m not. You’re here.” She pauses. “I love you,” she says, rubbing her thumb over his knuckles.

It’s his last chance and so he kisses her lips, feeling how cracked and hot they are beneath his own. Her breathing is so shallow he can’t even feel it. _Stay_ , he thinks desperately. “I love you.”

She closes her eyes, but then she smiles, and Robb swallows his sob.

—-

Her fever breaks that night.


End file.
